


when we go down, you're so ferocious

by theomegapoint



Series: Kinktober 2018 [25]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Boot Worship, Bootblacking, Dom/sub Play, Kinktober 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theomegapoint/pseuds/theomegapoint
Summary: Enjolras hangs Grantaire's coat and then reaches down to run his fingers through Grantaire's hair. This too is a kindness—he's almost expecting when Enjolras grips and tilts his head back to an uncomfortable degree.“You have two choices,” Enjolras says, voice even and measured, “your mouth or your hands.”“Hands, sir.” It's not actually a choice, and Grantaire knows it. Thereisa correct answer. “Your boots haven't been properly blacked in a month.”





	when we go down, you're so ferocious

“Grantaire.”

The word is sharp, pointed, and it has Grantaire immediately snapping to attention in their meeting. It's a specific tone, a particular cadence that Grantaire recognizes only all too easily coming from Enjolras. It means he's slipped and if he's slipped, then that means there's a punishment.

“Do you have anything to contribute on the topic of omega rights?”

The _no, sir_ is almost out of his mouth before he remembers they're in the middle of an ABC meeting and not at home, in their bedroom. It's not as if the others would take it as a strange response, but Grantaire knows that it would be another slip and that would be unacceptable.

“You know me,” Grantaire says, breezy and light as if he doesn't want to fall to the floor and beg Enjolras' forgiveness, “I would have said so if I did. Besides, it's not really my place to talk about omega rights as an alpha.”

There's an near imperceptible twitch of Enjolras' mouth, and Grantaire relaxes slightly. That means that even if he's slipped, it wasn't egregious. He's redeemed himself, even if only slightly. Joly glances over at him, as if to ask if something's wrong, and Grantaire shakes his head and offers a smile. Everything's fine—for the moment, at least. He has no doubt that things will be less than fine later, however.

For the rest of the meeting, Enjolras doesn't pay him any mind and that's exactly how Grantaire prefers it. Jehan had asked if that behavior bothered him, the way that Enjolras rarely paid him attention in their meetings even now that they were dating and Grantaire hadn't known how to explain that it was, in fact, the _point_ of their relationship. He'd settled on saying that meetings were meetings and he preferred that Enjolras focus on what was important to the cause there, which isn't untrue but also isn't the entire story.

Collecting his bag, Grantaire saunters over to where Enjolras is talking to Courfeyrac and Combferre. He'll be a few minutes yet—the three of them nearly always talk for bit after a meeting technically ends—and while he's waiting for Enjolras, Grantaire starts to collect Enjolras' things. He collects the papers, the flyers, the minutes—for someone who can be so meticulous, it's funny how unorganized Enjolras' bag used to be before Grantaire started packing it. They're opposites in that way, Grantaire guesses: where he keeps his tools in perfect order even when his life is a mess, Enjolras is the type of person who spreads his papers out without much rhyme or reason. There's a chaos in it that Grantaire thinks might reflect the haphazard way in which Enjolras tends to think. It's cute, although that's something that Grantaire would only say aloud under pain of death.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. It's softer this time, and Grantaire holds out Enjolras' bag. “Let's go home.”

They walk the distance from the Musain to their shared apartment. It's not terribly far and Enjolras prefers to walk wherever possible, which is a habit that Grantaire is happy to indulge. They don't talk, but the silence isn't awkward. They've merely found that sometimes words are necessary between them and sometimes there's no need for them. Usually if Enjolras wants an argument, he'll say so. Instead, Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand in his and laces their fingers together.

By the time they reach the apartment, Grantaire's hand is warm where it touched Enjolras' and he knows that it's just a small morsel of kindness before a punishment. Enjolras' doesn't take his hand away, even when he's opening the door to their apartment, and Grantaire doesn't want to but once they're inside and the door is shut he lets go of Enjolras' hand and sinks to his knees.

“Sir.” Grantaire looks down at the floor. “Forgive me.”

There's a rustle of fabric, and Grantaire is distantly aware that Enjolras is likely hanging up his coat. He forgot that they were wearing them, which is another slip.

“Your coat, Grantaire.” Enjolras holds out a hand, and Grantaire undoes his coat. He slides it off and hands it up to Enjolras, careful to not let it drag too much. “Good alpha.”

Enjolras hangs Grantaire's coat and then reaches down to run his fingers through Grantaire's hair. This too is a kindness—he's almost expecting when Enjolras grips and tilts his head back to an uncomfortable degree.

“You have two choices,” Enjolras says, voice even and measured, “your mouth or your hands.”

“Hands, sir.” It's not actually a choice, and Grantaire knows it. There _is_ a correct answer. “Your boots haven't been properly blacked in a month.”

“Good alpha.” Enjolras lets Grantire's hair go and strides into their living room to settle on their couch. “You know where the supplies are.”

He does, and it's easy to collect his kit and a bowl of water before settling at Enjolras' feet. He's about to begin when Enjolras settles his boot on Grantaire's chest and stops him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly, “you're forgetting something.”

The words are confusing at first, because Grantaire never does well with understanding words when he's entering subspace, but eventually he realizes and pulls the small stool from where they keep it when it's not in use. They'd tried to get to the point where Grantaire could do the entire process on his knees, but as it turned out Grantaire was so meticulous about the care of Enjolras' boots that having him on his knees for the entire process was near impossible.

“Good alpha,” Enjolras says. He settles his boot in the valley of Grantaire's thighs, and Grantaire begins unlacing it. “Would that every alpha be so good to their omega.”

“An omega doesn't need an alpha, sir.” Grantaire gently scrubs the grime from Enjolras' boot, concentrating in the areas where he's aware that dirt tends to collect. “And, as you're always saying, nobody should feel socially obligated to serve someone else.”

“Let me rephrase, then.” Enjolras laughs, loose and easy. “Would that you always be such a good alpha to me. Would that you always kneel for me.”

“I'm not kneeling, sir, but I would hate to be anywhere else.” It's easy to talk while he doesn't have to look at Enjolras. While all he really has to focus on is the task before him and not the words coming out of his mouth. “I'm lucky to have an omega like you.”

There's gentle fingers in his hair, and Grantaire can't help the quiet rumble that radiates from his chest. Enjolras' boots are dirtier than they usually let them get, which means that Grantaire is expecting it when his attention is turned back to the boot in his lap. He goes back to scrubbing, goes back to taking care of Enjolras' things and keeping them in order. It's how he makes himself useful to Enjolras.

“You missed a spot,” Enjolras says. It's casual, almost dismissive, and Grantaire wouldn't pay it much mind except for the way the boot shifts in his lap so the toe is gently nudging his cock. “I need these to be spotless for the rally on Saturday.”

“Sorry, sir.” He doesn't look up, doesn't focus on anything but working the brush across the leather to wash away the dirt that's accumulated. His clothes are going to be filthy after this. “I'll work harder.”

Washing away the soap, Grantaire looks the boot over. He runs his hands over it, trying to determine if he needs to strip the polish. It'll probably be fine, he thinks, since he stripped them not that long ago. Enjolras hasn't told him to either, which means that it's up to his judgment—it isn't always. Sometimes, Enjolras will _make_ him strip the boots all the way down to bare leather and start from the beginning. Sometimes, his judgment can't be trusted.

There's something comforting about the smell of polish, something that makes him settle as he rubs it onto Enjolras' boot in thin layers: black, black, red, and then black again. There wasn't any particular reasoning behind the red—sometimes people use blue or green, but red has always been an inextricably _Enjolras_ color to him in a way that means Grantaire makes sure that his boots shine red when the light catches them just right.

“You're always prettiest like this.” Enjolras runs his fingers through Grantaire's hair again, and this time Grantaire forces himself not to react. “I should arrange for you to do this to Musichetta's boots some time. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“If it pleases you,” Grantaire says, “I would enjoy most anything.”

Swapping the polish application cloth out for the polishing cloth, Grantaire works the leather. At some point, he thinks, he's really going to have to give these boots a good working when they're not _on_ Enjolras. They get clean enough when he does them like this, but he can't shake the feeling that they're not clean _enough_.

When Enjolras' boot shines and catches the light in a way that makes them almost look like vinyl, Grantaire relaces it and kisses Enjolras' leg just above where it ends. He sets it on the floor and waits while Enjolras inspects it, looking for missed spots or shoddy workmanship.

“Beautiful,” Enjolras says after a moment. He sets his other boot into Grantaire's lap. “Now the other.”

Grantaires allows himself to smile, just a little, before he sets to finishing what he started.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope when I die Victor Hugo personally seeks me out in the afterlife to tell me this isn't what he meant by that line in the brick. I hope when I die I get to look Victor Hugo in the eye and smile before saying "Death of the author, bitch."


End file.
